Esoteric
by Gnimaerd
Summary: He has come to live again, in a world where technology is king and crime is a far more subtle thing. The entrance he makes, by capturing the greatest web-weaver there has ever been known to exist-Will shake the world to it's very roots. This is the story of Ciel Phantomhive, and how he has come to live again.
1. Prologue

_**Esoteric:**_

_**The Prologue**_

* * *

He enters the swimming pool that in unwritten names, talks of a dead boy once named Carl Powers... He feels faded between lines of being over three hundred years old and thirteen again for the second time. His shoes echo from the walls, the ground.

_(The line between being incredibly ancient and being who he currently is not a line, but a wet blur of ink on parchment.)_

_"My name's Jim Moriarty."_ A voice, made familiar by traces and ghosts calls out in the distance, taunting his victim in the distance. There's an old soldier ahead of him, an unbalanced genius, and a psychopath.

He is still the Queen's Watchdog, no matter what happens.

His orders are a fair bit more complicated this time and far more direct than they had been three hundred years ago, but time and technology did things to people, to places to render them completely unrecognizable.

_"Hi."_

He aims a DNA-activated handgun over the chest of the psychopath, aiming for the shoulder. The shadows hide him, and the target lights on the other two men's bodies are falsely lit.

By the time the Bruce-Partington plans drop into the water, the psychopath's chest is exploding with blood. A long time ago, he knows that he might have ordered his Butler to do the job for him. But part of what makes the blur of ink visible is his ruthless practicality. He has grown, in some ways.

The little black USB slowly drifted to the bottom of the pool, and with it, a few tendrils of blood leaked in, spreading like desolate, many-fingered hands to the gutter.

He tucks away his gun.

"James Moriarty, I shall be bringing you in." He says coldly, looking past the two other, shocked men in favor of the indignant figure that is Moriarty. Ironic, then that it should be that Carl Powers had died in the pool from the psychopath-And that the psychopath should be brought to his knees in the same spot.

_(His duties to England's monarchy were never over, despite being delayed by death.)_


	2. Chapter One: Disjointed

**Chapter One, of Esoteric: Disjointed.**

* * *

It began rather simply on a light, unusually sunny morning where he found London eating breakfast at his table, looking for all the world like it belonged there.

He sighs, and sits.

A while back, he considers briefly (A very long while back) he would of been mostly concerned with a Chinese mafia boss bumming a breakfast off of him and telling him about human trafficking. Or an indian idiot. Mainly an indian idiot.

He begins eating. These days, he doesn't have much choice.

"You're back," London says to him in between bites, and he nods his head in acknowledgment of this fact, not looking at the embodiment of a city eating at his table because it's _obvious _that he's here, and the fact doesn't even really merit the time of thinking about it.

"You're _back_," London says then in a muffled roar that shakes his house. He looks up. (London's whisper alone is a thousand flaps of pigeons, a million car honks, ten tube train lines moving at once-To say that London _speaks _is) He sees London shining in it's glory across the table. (It's eyes glow with dying lamplight, it's wrinkles are streets, and each breath means life)

Then Earl Phantomhive _understands, _and he takes his hands out of his ears.

"Tell Her Majesty that I will be there." He says as if this sort of thing happened every day, and continued eating as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Then the truth of London dies away in front of him, and leaves behind a painfully ordinary-looking blond man wearing an extraordinarily wooly jumper instead.

His life used to be not quite this complicated. He blames his servant's boredom, honestly. With this in mind, Ciel Phantomhive opens the papers.

**x.**

He sees the Queen over a computer that week and quietly speaks to her about life, death and duty. She tells him about the world he has come to, about bombings in London and a spider sitting in the center of a web.

She knows far more than her people will ever give her credit for. He does not envy the life she has lived, but she would not envy his.

They both have their roles to fulfill.

**x.**

After that night in the pool, his first meeting with the Government proceeds:

_"You have done well," The British Government says to him. The stone grey eyes sitting in his sharp face say, "You have done what was needed." _

_Rain pounds outside of the windows belonging to the Diogenes club._

_"Her Majesty willed it." He says simply in the dusty silence of the room, in response to both of those statements. He wonders inside of his mind if Arthur Doyle knew how powerful words were, back then-Maybe he knew; and that was why he only wrote of he and his butler in shades of ink, blurring the lines between them both and creating two people entirely different than the demon and the child he had chanced upon._

_"Yes…The Queen's dog. How did you come to rise from the ashes?" Government says in a peculiar voice, sucking in air through clenched teeth as he does so. "Her Majesty called, and I came." He smiles._

_British Government looks unnerved, and he feels amusement._

_Sebastian is standing behind him, a shadow. He feels amusement, too._

**_x._**

Moriarty stares at him with pitiless black eyes, young and old all at once in his prison garb, covered in blood and bandages. His nails are completely worn away, and there's a little smile on his lips, quirking his lips up as if there's something funny.

Even at this depth of humiliation, he finds dignity. Dignity-A lift of a shoulder, disregarding all of the blood around him as if it doesn't matter. Smugness, as if he knew something that others didn't. There is careless dignity that only belongs to the insane.

_"I owe you a fall,"_ He mouths to the little boy of thirteen standing on the other side of the bars rather theatrically with that little smile still on his face.

"I'm afraid not." His servant responds for his master, closing his eyes and smiling at the criminal.

"?" Is written all over the grey stone walls of the cell. Only the lower half of it occupies a _true_ name, half-carved and half-writ with blood: "Sherlock."

_The Game has truly begun._

**_x._**

"You're sure about this, my lord?" A genuinely amused smile echoes around the smooth, pale lips of the perfect servant. He knows his master very well, knows him well enough to ask.

The master turns around, coat-afluttering like so many rippling feathers around him. The sunset shines brilliantly against his back; it makes for a glorious sight. None of this matters to him.

"The House of Phantomhive has not yet been extinguished."

* * *

Gnimaerd: Sorry if it's horrible. Promise you that the next chapter will make more sense and flow smoother; this is more like a trailer that came after a breathless moment. It's another little piece before the story truly begins moving in earnest.


	3. Chapter Two: The Beginning

_In the night, London exists in the form of a man and as a city._

_As a human, his name is John Watson._

* * *

_"Haaa-!" _A middle-aged man sits up in his bed, florescent street light from a window throwing his wrinkled face into sharp relief. _(His window is shuttered; but that doesn't matter for the_ doctor—His_ light will never truly fade for him. So it shines light when he needs it.)_

There will always be something, something in the night that wakes him up. Whether it's memories of war or something else altogether, London never actually sleeps-By default, he doesn't either.

_(On his bedside, neon red letters proudly proclaim the time; He doesn't need to look at it to know it but he keeps it there for the sake of it being there. Sherlock could come up with his own reasons why he never touches it, he thinks.)_

He shudders and pats his body, as if to be sure that is still there. His hand is shaking again; Mycroft Holmes wasn't quite right about the reasons for the symptom existing—But the man was close enough, and it is simply for John that when things are too normal, his hands begin to shake.

The dreams he has are part of him: He has always had more than just the duties he carries during the waking hours; he dreams in duty as well and _sees_. He dreams of being a butcher in a half-forgotten time of war, then having been a child in a lord's lap. He remembers peace documents to be drafted, sees dead men on the tube as they leap in front of the train, and gazes over empty coffins of the dead men that served home and country.

_(When he was younger, he was driven mad with it.)_

Tonight, he dreams of an old title that has risen from the past; a title that had been forgotten by many. _"The Queen's Watchdog."_

His dreaming wasn't usually this useful, but he supposed _something_ had to give eventually.

He reaches up into the darkness...And aims a gun he doesn't keep with him that he's summoned from under the pillow. An L9A1 that he's not supposed to have. He thinks that there are benefits to being him, at times. He thinks about a similar gun that was about to be handled by that thirteen year old.

_"I, I follow, I follow you...Deep sea baby, I follow you...I, I follow, I follow you" _A loud blast of music came presumably from a car from the street below, startling him from his thoughts; drunken giggling and "Shut it _off,"-s _ float up to his flat and make him frown. Of course, there are some things that he _doesn't_ have benefits in while living in a body.

Sighing, he falls limply across his colorless, dust-mite filled headboard, not even bothering to be careful with the manufactured war wound of his own making. Ignoring the burning feeling spreading in his shoulder, he passes a hand over his beaded brow.

In meeting Sherlock Holmes, he considers that he has damned his flatmate to becoming a true part of London; a Landmark. Sometimes, he thinks it would have happened at any rate. But he did pick the best choice for all of them-The darker futures that loomed were always worse.

In truth, he hated dreaming for Queen and Country.

With a grunt, he shifts the weight off of his wound and tries to go back to sleep. Tomorrow, he will have to fulfill his new job.

* * *

But in the morning, the subject of his dreams is calmly sitting in his favorite chair.

The subject is sipping tea from a cup like there is nothing wrong with the world, so John blinks to ensure it's reality. He doesn't quite take a step back; the subject is not a zombie nor a Dalek and should not be treated as such. But it _is _rather unexpected, and he finds himself asking: "Sorry, wh-"

"Doctor John Watson, served for Queen and Country in Afghanistan." The Earl didn't even glance at the Doctor, and the tall man dressed in all black standing next to him was the one interrupting. "A most commendable service, only that it doesn't exist. Or rather it does, but it doesn't in the ways that matter."

"How-" Because this morning, John Watson got up expecting that he was going to have to take the tube into the furthest reaches that he, London was extended to, and then take a cab to break into his Watchdog's mansion so that he could fulfill his dream and get a free breakfast. Instead, he found that things have gone all wrong and Earl Phantomhive and Sebastian Michaelis are now in his _bloody_ flat, and where is Sherlock and why is Murphy's law working again?

He decides he needs tea, too. Lots of it.

"Why are you here?" The query is rather more irritated than he expects, marching as he does through the cluttered kitchen to go find the last tin of English Breakfast and god where_ is_ Sherlock at and can he make his morning even a little better? Moriarty hadn't even _begun _on his little streak of idi-Well, no that wasn't true, there was that Study in Pink case and Blind Banker case (They _were _good names, whether Sherlock liked it or not; He was ruddy _London_ and he knew what his populace liked, thanks) and _really, _sometimes a bloke just needed to lend his flatmate a really dangerous criminal for a little while so that he could _just stop using his not-legal gun to shoot holes in the wall._

And so alright, it unnerved him that someone found him without him revealing himself first. He was entitled to that much. He yanked open the cupboard doors.

"We are here because you have summoned us." There wasn't a tin of English Breakfast _anywhere_. He erupted into a steady stream of silent curses, then rounded around to look at the two intruders. "I haven't summoned you _yet. _And-How do you know to come into my house, anyway?" He pauses, cocking his head to the side, chest heaving.

The boy withdraws an envelope of something or the other from his coat, and the servant took it from him. "London's occupants—Should they need to find London, they will." Sebastian said in a remarkably serene voice, seeing as what he just suggested just probably broke the fourth wall—then, offered the envelope to John.

John thinks that it's too bloody early in the day for this, personally. He still strides forward and nips it out of the gloved fingers, shoving it in his dressing gown. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Out." The boy spoke for the first time, shifting in his seat. "Out where?" John asked. "You'll be seeing him by noon, Doctor." The Butler said politely, smiling. "Please do sit."

John does so, feeling mildly irritated. "So I suppose you know what I _would _have summoned you for, seeing as you knew enough to break into my ruddy flat and rid me of the last tin of tea." He said in a barely polite tone, restraining himself from snapping. _Then_ he saw both the Butler and his master hide a smile at his expense, lifting a gloved hand and a cup each respectively.

His irritation died away to nothing, leaving a sort of weary resignation in it's place.

"You want me to depose of James Moriarty, then?" The Earl asked, leaning forward to place the teacup in between them and to place his chin on his wrists.

London, also known as Doctor John Watson huffs. _Well, obviously. _You'd_ know, you_ broke into my flat _and I'm not forgiving that one anytime soon,_his expression suggests.

"You'll have to forgive me, Doctor. It _has _been a few hundred years." Ciel Phantomhive leans back now, a muted gleam of amusement shining in his eyes. "I do hope that this one is more interesting than the last one."

The doctor smiled wryly, slightly shaking it. "You'll find him interesting, no doubt. That man...Is an absolute psycho." He rolls his head, and in doing so hears the popping of two streets into place. There'd be a traffic block by noon somewhere in the north of London, best not go that route to work today... "I'd warn you to be cautious, but we both know you have the luck and skill of the devil with you." The Earl nodded at this, taking the teacup back to sip from.

"I expect payment in a week's time."

"I would...Expect no less from you, Ciel Phantomhive." John makes a funny half-nod, and rises. "Right, so...I'll just leave you to it, then."

* * *

He received a call from a rather irate British Government in a cafe down in the north end of London by midmorning; he'd ended up using the tube to get to work after all. But the poor waitress working at the cafe was handing over her personal cell phone to him by the time he had reached availability, so while he lifted the phone to his ear John was seriously contemplating the pros and cons of getting a secured-line cell phone. "Hello?"

_"Doctor Watson, why wasn't I informed that a _dead_ family name had recently come back to life?"_ In the original vision, John would have remedied this telling Mycroft by now. _Odd, that things were happening this way, _He considered. He swallowed a piece of scone, and gulped down some of the much-needed tea with it. "Ah, sorry? You did kidnap me and put me in a warehouse." He frowns, turns his head.

_"Get in the car, Doctor Watson."_ The stereotypical black car slid up in front of the cafe, and London snorted. "Windsor uses a cab service that looks remarkably like yours, you know." As he begins walking, he adds: "Don't infect the new boy with a need to kidnap embodiments with unmarked black cars, yeah?"

_"I will make no promises." _Mycroft was grumpy today, John notes and hurriedly crams the rest of his scone into his mouth.

* * *

"Look, Mycroft. I said I was sorry." John was futilely trying to calm the irate representation of Government, knowing that if he so chose to, he could very well shut away the Queen's Guard Dog in a prison cell. And then _that _would only lead to bad things, and Ciel Phantomhive could very well end up actually threatening the entirety of Government, including the Houses of Parliament. John wanted to avoid that headache if he could. So far, it wasn't looking like it was working.

"Who is he, London?" Mycroft finally snapped from the front seat—An emergency like this dictated that he not only drove himself, but that there were no others that were around him. John bowed his head and put it between his knees, and tried to breath. Standard procedure for panic. Because of this, he didn't note the title of London being used. "Mycroft, we needed him."

"I asked who_ is _he, London?" This time, John _did _note it. He sighed and raised his head. "He is Ciel Phantomhive, Mycroft. _The _Ciel Phantomhive, last of the Phantomhive family. Son of Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive, Queen's Guard dog. He's from Victoria's reign."

The car actually skidded to a stop, and Mycroft turned slowly in his seat to stare at John.

"He time traveled?"

"No, of cou-No." John frowned, and shook his head. "He's... re-incarnated."

Mycroft's mouth thinned into a white, hard line. "Typically Dr. Watson, people don't duplicate themselves _exactly as they were. _And I have a very distinct feeling that he _is_ replicated; hard to mistake that personality." He added with a dry tone. "As it is Dr. Watson, this is an anomaly."

"Not so much, he has a demon in his employ." John felt it was helpful to add this—Just seeing Mycroft go rigid was a pleasure of its own.

"You had best not be joking, Dr. Watson." John smiled smugly, folding his hands. He didn't often get to surprise Mycroft, and he was going to milk it for what it was worth. "I do not joke about my demonic inhabitants, Mycroft. Remember the fellow that kidnapped you? The one with the ducks?"

Mycroft grimaced. "Yes, the fellow with Queen's music."

"Exactly."

There was a beat of silence before Mycroft turned to face the wheel again. "I do hope you know what you're doing, London."

"I do."

And at that moment, the phone in John's pocket buzzed. A tiny frown creased his forehead, and he picked it up.

_He sends his greetings, and I say that if you waited longer you could have gotten some excellent tea for free._

_-Q_

John swore.


	4. Chapter Three: The Beginning (Part Two)

For a few seconds longer after his bout of cursing, John stared at the phone. The words _"You could of gotten some excellent tea for free" _stared up at him mockingly from the screen, shining and smug and utterly _aggravating_. Frustration bubbled in his stomach like lava, _(If London doesn't get tea in the morning, No-bloody-body-whom-so-ever-will-be-happy for the rest of the_ week. _And if you _shove it in it's face _then by god)_ and before he knew it a low growl emitted from deep within his throat like some great animal, rolling vibrations through the black interior of the car.

"Settle down, Dr. Watson...Before you damage my car. What happened?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. John tiredly rubbed at his face and sighed, dropping off the growl as best as he could and shoving down the red-hot anger.

If he considered it truthfully, Mycroft was right. Ciel Phantomhive _was_ an anomaly no matter what angle you came at him from; He had to be in order to pull _Q_ of all people to his side... That text message was no accident. No wonder why Jim had taken to the Earl in the vision, really...Genius minds had the unfortunate tendency to be bored, and something like Ciel Phantomhive was a puzzle that had the promise of being complicated. The fragility of genius, Sherlock once said. They needed an audience. But they also needed something to fuel the genius.

And another genius had unexpectedly joined the ranks, much to John's annoyance and bemusement.

"Q's with him."

He only had the shriek of tires to reckon with before Mycroft came to another sudden stop. John whacked his head on the seat before him and a dark thunderstorm bloomed somewhere in Barking and Dagen; Both London and John cursed simultaneously and wished that they were quicker on the uptake. And for the second time today, Mycroft seemed to be put off. "Q... MI6?" His voice was still sharp, but it wasn't directed at him this this time.

John groaned from the back, rubbing at his head. "Yes. You know, you geniuses never think about giving a part of London another black cloud. You _are_ his brother, you know."

Mycroft's only reaction was to restart driving. And then say, "I'm well aware, Dr. Watson."

"Arsehole." John muttered silently, and sat heavily back into his chair.

* * *

When the young man known mostly as Michael Serrocold opened the drapes to his office and out of mere curiosity, looked down upon the streets of New York City and saw a white BMW innocently parked in front of his building, he had a small heart attack.

Michael Serrocold was a semi-reputed handsome workaholic, prone to binging on coffee and papers at his workplace and not much else. He was mightily mysterious to his women co-workers for being a "pretty boy who never spoke of his past or habits", never went to bars or clubs with his colleagues, never sat or chatted with them at lunch and only intermittently spoke to them outside of work. It was often said in whispers that he needed the right girl to loosen him up before the ice melted, and in a way that was true; Michael Serrocold wasn't the type to have one-or-two night stands with girls or even boys, but there was his sister, and while he could hold himself in great restraint with everyone and anyone else, any illusions of politeness or even restraint flew out the window the minute he saw hide or tail of her.

The reason being that she absolutely drove him to distraction, and either infuriated him beyond measure or enamored him completely to whatever scheme she was involved in. Most of the time, it was in both cases.

Such a time was when she had managed to get him _allergic to Alcohol_ during an accident in the Philippines. _This, _not a case of being standoffish, was why he never went out with his co-workers. It was humiliating. He didn't mean to be mysterious, but his _real _occupation, not the part-time job he was currently employed in was a bit... confidential. To anyone that was relatively on the right side of the law. If you were on the other side, then to hell and high tides; he was most definitely _not _mysterious and most everyone who knew his name also knew the Boston accident where he was found mostly naked, strung up by a lamp post by his underwear after a job. The details were what made the story, but he had no wish to recount them.

In his pocket, a ringtone drifted out a mournful tune. "_It's unfortunate that when we feel a storm, we can roll ourselves over 'cause we're uncomfortable..." _

Pulling out his phone, he gazed at the caller ID. _Blocked, _it read in it's unemotional white. Huffing with ironic laughter, sliding his thumb across the screen, he opened to answer and held it to his head, his heart filling up with hope and fear.

_"Cally, we're in."_

The affectionate nickname broke his eternal suspension, and a radiant smile grew on his face. A storm had come his way, but he was fortunate indeed to be able to roll over. He _was _uncomfortable, living like this.

"Change your car, won't you?" He quipped, already re-setting his eternal gears and mentally turning his eternal clock back to _"homeland." _

At the moment, it seemed like the two-week notice you had to give to the company he was working at was a bit out of the question.

What felt like moments later, he was in front of his building and in front of the white BMW. In the window, there was a girl in the driver's seat gazing at traffic. Perched on her nose, she wore a pair of tortoise shell sunglasses, though she hardly needed them judging by the level of pollution in the skies. A car beeped angrily ahead, which set off an entire stream of beeps all down the street. There was indignation in the air from the road, thick enough to spread on bread.

Awkwardly, he stood for a few minutes on the walk, waiting for her to notice him.

The driver was young adolescent girl in her late teens, a "rich darling" judging by the cost of the car and designer sunglasses. Tips of a silk scarf peeked out from the bottom of the window, and through the gritty smell of the pavement dust, the man could smell Chanel N5.

Then her lips curled in a lazy smile, and she rolled her head to face him. "Did you not hear me, Cally? I said…" Pursing her lips, she suddenly blew out a white bubble from her lips. The bubble snapped, and she grinned again. "We're in."

Recognizing the signal Michael grinned back at her, his face full of boyish charm.

"If the princess wishes it so."

* * *

If there was a city more miserable than he at the moment, John honestly didn't want to hear about it.

"Now remember Mycroft, don't- Don't try to set them off. I'm just as upset as you." John chattered in between sprays of freezing water from the sky, completely soaked through. His Government was faring far better off with his gigantic black brolly, completely dignified as ever. John sent his Government a slightly sulky glance, and looked up at the umbrella. And being a much better people-reader than his brother, Mycroft grudgingly moved his umbrella a single square inch to shield John more from the rain. Mouth a thin line, he pressed the doorbell.

_(In the background, what was left of Mycroft's car was a smoking, charred wreck. In terms of guarding one's home, Ciel Phantomhive was surprisingly vicious and overly thorough. Mycroft claims that it's John's fault for letting him get this way, and all bets are off with the cars because he needs to replace his. Even if he gets kidnapped it'll be worth every moment to deprive the brat of his money. ((Translated from Mycroft-speak.)))_

A beat passed before a sharp, bell-like tinkle was heard. The door opened immediately, revealing a handsome twenty-something year old man dressed immaculately in smart black wool. He surveyed the pair, and his clearly practiced, charming smile melted into something far more genuine. "Sirs—"

"Tell _Q_ that I'm here to see him and the Earl, if you would." Mycroft inclined his head stiffly at the Butler holding open the door. Privately, John thought that _anything_ getting them out of the damp and off of the slippery white marble doorstep would more than suffice in this occasion... Sebastian ignored the not-quite-veiled snub towards his Master, and bowed. "Of course. They've been expecting you, Mr. Holmes. Would you and Dr. Watson like to join them now?"

"If you could."

"A pleasure. Would you like for me to take your coats before meeting them?"

"If you could." John interrupted, feeling very much-put-upon, and wretchedly cold. "Is the offer of tea still available? And Mycroft, stop handbagging the bloody butler. It's not _his _fault MI6 is involved."

Mycroft looked insulted, and the butler almost-smiled at him. "This way, sirs."

* * *

"No! I keep on telling you, Lord Phantomhive-" Q and the Earl appeared to be in the middle of an animated debate, John thought rather bemusedly, toweling his head. It was a hot towel straight from the dryer, thank goodness that the butler seemed to be adept at picking up social cues from the present day.

The thunderstorm from Barking and Dagen had clearly moved upwards, and was currently raining angrily like a high-pressure shower over the grounds of the manor. Both he and Mycroft so far were caught in the middle of it, and bloody hell he was going to be _still_ damp when John got back to his stomping grounds. Morning included, his day was shaping up miserably so far.

Then Q saw the two of them and ended his conversation with the Earl with a hasty excuse, clearly alarmed by them. John wondered why; their entry was hardly subtle. _"_Hello Grandmaster," He greeted Mycroft with an air of minute uncertainty, surveying his boss' boss' thunderous face. Almost immediately, John's day picked right back up at the sight of that face. "I...Didn't think you'd overreact in this way?" It ended as a question, and the Quartermaster became visibly nervous.

But disappointingly, Mycroft only gave Q a _look _and sat down heavily to sulk with a carefully picked scone. However, _t__his_ behavior was so strange and unfitting of the Government John privately wondered if he should ask Sherlock to help pick funeral arrangements in advance. "Bring the fat bastard lollipop-cakes, John. A nice arrangement of them" sounded appropriately Sherlock-y in his head, until it was replaced with "What's a funeral," a concept John found so funny that he had to excuse himself briefly from the conversation that was forming.

"Nine months, Q. This could be counted as treason. I hope you understand the magnitude of what you did by not reporting to Mother... Doctor John Watson could not have told me, as he has the city under jurisdiction and not surveillance." Mycroft commented snippily, toweling his head off. "But you...Re-incarnated children, London acting up, My Brother, and cleaning up that new mess 007 made _this _time with Mother's old protoge... I might add that you accidentally _released _the man?"

_Oh, so now we're getting to it._ John thought, interest tweaked back to the conversation. The funeral arrangements were off. In the meantime, Q burned an ugly red flush of embarrassment and looked down. The Earl only looked rather amused.

"I-I was only trying to figure out the pass codes, sir—"

"You are young, Quentin and though it _has_ been two years since your early graduation from University, perhaps Bond was not entirely wrong in commenting that you still had..._spots_." This was clearly too much for Q's pride, and dark eyes flashed behind his horned spectacles. "With all of my due respect Grandmaster, I regularly fix _your_ security and safeguard the Kingdom's. There is an _entire division_ set to that task alone in America. I tend to do it before _breakfast_."

There was a beat of silence, and Earl Phantomhive began to lightly snicker.

"Well played, Grandmaster." Once, twice he silently clapped his ringed hands, and surveyed the balding Government in a mildly condescending fashion.

London briefly thought that for being a thirteen year old, Ciel Phantomhive had _a lot_ of backbone. Perhaps for the first time in his life, The Government itself was turning puce. Then it calmed, and returned to it's usual dry and mostly unemotional self.

"Ah, the fruit of our matter. I see you have not been...Brushing up from your departed absence."

Ciel Phantomhive then smiled at Mycroft, and John shivered. _Bloody hell, that was terrifying. _For all that he was exceptionally pretty and delicate for such a young child, the Earl looked remarkably like a shark at times.

* * *

Back in New York...

"Any minute now." The girl in the front said in a matter-of-fact voice, having entered traffic by this time. Michael had entered the car and for all intents and purposes, had left his job to disappear once again into the dark and exciting world of crime. It was five minutes already, and so far the experience was extremely boring. No others words had been spoken yet between the two, despite not seeing each other for a year and a half.

"Any minute what?" Michael asked, peering behind them. An italian taxi cab driver was currently making some fantastically obscene gestures in his driver's windows, and becoming steadily more inventive by the second. Michael was taking notes with some faint admiration.

The girl's response was to put a delicate size four Christian Dior shoe on the pedal and break several speed limits by at least eighty-five miles per hour. For a traffic-laden street, this was a very dangerous move.

_"Holy SHIT!"_

* * *

"If you'll let me _finish, _Grandmaster, _you _would know that this boy would be _extremely _useful to us!" Q said in agitation, waving around his empty tea cup like a maniac. His eyes were popping from behind his spectacles, and his curly hair was all but frizzing in the cold air. Personally, John thought he and his Government was making a mountain out of an anthill. Lord Phantomhive looked bored already. And _he _lost most of his interest fifteen minutes ago, when they had last reached the point of shouting.

"He is an Unknown, _Q._ You of all people...ought to know better."

John raised his eyebrows at the young boy in a stupor of semi-tedium on his furniture. Briefly considering that it might of gone better had the Earl just stuck to the original vision instead of breaking into his flat. Mycroft, as far as he could read him- Wasn't even that upset anymore at the young lord. He was just throwing a hissy fit at his subordinate because things were out of his complete control.

Still, arguing for the good part of _half an hour _was a bit much. _"Maybe we can stop this now?"_ John offered quietly after a minute more, rather fed up with the bickering. No matter that he was on the outskirts of London, he was still _London _and no matter where he went he still carried the city within him. His quiet offer, said as both John Watson, _Legend_ and London, _City_ as a result rocked the house a little with the weight of his words.

The Earl looked up, startled curiosity lighting up his face as the couch swayed from side to side. Q and Mycroft froze in place, midword, looking quite shocked.

John cleared his throat. "Now, if you two boys are done having your..._handbags, _then perhaps we can settle this matter?" He smiled uncertainly, but his eyes were slowly unveiling to show a glowing glint of gold.

Q turned pale, gulped and sat down unceremoniously. Mycroft glared, his stone grey eyes showing the warning glint of Government in return but sat down as well, deferring to the leading city.

John coughed again, and smiled a touch more genuinely. "Thank you."

* * *

_"I can't decide whether you should live or die, boy you'd probably go to heaven-" _The ringtone sang cheerfully from the front seat of the white BMW, quite unconcerned with the present situation. The wail of sirens was behind them, and the cars behind them sang an angry chorus with their horns.

Broadway Street wasn't very happy with the girl driver or Michael.

"Answer it." The girl snapped, glaring at a white-faced and utterly silent Michael from behind her glasses. Onwards she drove, ducking various cars as she went and weaving madly. Gone was the rich darling who stopped in front of buildings for young men abandoning jobs; Together they were currently in a high-speed goose chase around the city, leading police cars (and nosy New Yorkers) around to some building that apparently needed the attention. "Go on, Answer it."

Managing to roll his eyes with difficult flippancy, Michael picked up the phone from the front and slid it open. "Yes?"

There was a beat of silence. Michael slammed his blond head into the front seat of the car in a misguided attempt to release tension and grumbled inaudibly, knowing full well he seemed five years younger than he actually was and not caring. He'd had two heart attacks twice in one day and was well on his way to having a third. "Yes. No. No, I don't fancy being sold off in a specialized auction house! I don't think they accept human flesh donations in Sothby's. No, I know-"

There was only the overpowering screech of sirens for a moment or so. Michael looked very put out at whatever was being said, to the point where his lips were protruding in a slightly uncharacteristic pout, having momentarily forgotten his physical circumstances.

"Tell him I expect payment." The girl snapped, and snapped her gum, and snatched her phone back. "Hell-_ooo_." She sang the last bit in a low, honeyed alto: Then spun around a few cars in a circle, and began driving _backwards_. Michael shut his eyes and tried to not scream like a four year old girl at this particular prospect of death. "Mory-Mor, I'm shocked. Do you _fancy-_ I _don't_ fancy getting my face getting split like a grape. Who told you to proposition ladies this way? At least let me explode my ov-" There was a snapping of gum, and a loud speaker-phone of _"PULL OVER"_ from a couple miles down, likely from the police. She ignored it. "Aren't you eager! Ta, I'll execute it. Afternoon." She hit "End," and pulled up another app on her phone.

Michael, who had opened his eyes and was now busy watching the street behind them, screeched: "JANE, WATCH THE FIRE HYDRANT!"

Without so much as looking upwards, the girl swerved to the side again and missed the fire hydrant with a few inches to spare, settling back tidily into the road. _"_What?" She finally asked, after a few moments of fiddling on her mobile.

There was a whimper from the seat opposite.

* * *

Meanwhile back in the Phantomhive Manor, John was busy setting things straight.

Ciel Phantomhive, bless his sold-off soul was a veritable font of information when he wasn't busy biting chunks out of people with that ridiculously frightening smile of his in tow. He had told everything that had happened to him in the last nine months (Though this was mostly for his own amusement) and supplied details that Q had failed to mention, much to the relief of both John and Mycroft. Mycroft, because he could back it up with the right push of the button and John, for getting Mycroft off of his back.

He was just getting to the part where he knew how to break into John's flat and how he knew in the first place that John was going to call on him when two things happened.

Mycroft's phone rang, singing a doleful tune. Mycroft's hand, previously on a teacup was reaching towards his pocket with superhuman speed...

And the world, within a moment became a deafening roar of rubble, fire, ash and dust.


End file.
